The Blood of Alexandria a-3

by Richard Blake

  They had ignored their part of the agenda. It was now our turn. With a cry of pain and annoyance and a clutching at his walking stick, it was now that Nicetas stood up. He heaved himself to his feet, and, his stick wobbling as it held him up, he looked out over the sea of faces.

  All of a sudden, there was silence. Every movement ceased. If Christ Himself, surrounded by Angels, had stepped out of the sky, I’m not sure if the effect would have been greater than Nicetas produced by standing up. He raised his arms for a hearing. There was a collective gasp of shock. It rippled back through the Egyptians, and was taken up by the Greeks. It wouldn’t have surprised me if it was fifty thousand jaws that fell open and a hundred thousand eyes that widened. The Viceroy had moved. Worse, the Viceroy had stood up and was now continuing to move. From far out in the hush came the occasional cry of astonishment and even horror. For the first time in living memory – for the first time, perhaps, in centuries – the people were seeing their ruler move in the execution of his duties. Someone a few yards along from me sat hurriedly down on the steps. Someone else appeared to be struggling with a fainting attack.

  ‘This has all gone too far,’ Nicetas shouted in Latin. ‘Tell these people that the Empire is ordained of God, and will never – not until the Last Day – evacuate Egypt or anywhere else. The Empire will – and must – last until the end of time. Tell them to go home before God smites them all with a pestilence to add to the other sufferings their disloyalty has brought upon them.’

  The herald looked back confused. He knew Greek, and he knew Egyptian. Latin wasn’t a language he’d been taken on to handle. From some parts of the mob, there was what sounded like an attempt at interpreting what had just been said. I relayed the words to the herald in Greek, pausing at each phrase so he could shout them in Egyptian in the appropriate form.

  ‘Alexander cannot weep,’ Nicetas went on, his voice cracking with the unaccustomed strain. ‘To say otherwise is treason against the Emperor, and blasphemy against the Decrees of God – who will never work a miracle through any object dear to the Old Faith.

  ‘Behold! I will show you these “Tears of Alexander”.’ Again taking care not to move his bad leg, he wheeled round to face the open door of the church. He beckoned wildly. From somewhere far inside the darkness of the church there was a scraping and then the banging of something heavy that had been dropped.

  Chapter 42

  ‘Oh fuck!’ I said, realising what he was about. Nicetas hadn’t just moved – he’d also planned ahead. And as the horror grew within me of what he’d planned, I nearly shat myself.

  Since the Viceroy himself had given up on playing at statues, I saw no reason why I should stand rooted to my spot under the portico. I’d turned sharp right and was watching the wooden box as it was carried out into the light. Like the moon against the darkest night sky, Martin’s face peered out from the interior of the church. To say it looked scared gives no fresh information. I pulled a face at him, mouthing that he should get back inside. He ignored me and came fully out and took up a position just to the right of the doorway. I turned back to Nicetas.

  ‘Please,’ I said quietly, ‘this really isn’t a good idea.’

  ‘I think I shall be the best judge of that,’ he snapped back at me. He motioned the four slaves forward with their burden and pointed at a spot a yard away from the front line of the still hushed mob. Incredulity and outrage blazing through the paint on his face, Priscus watched the unfolding of this new lunacy.

  For me, it was very like that afternoon at the Circus in Constantinople. I’d been chewing dried ganjika resin to support myself through the tedium of an epic poem Heraclius had commissioned about himself and then ordered to be read out before the races. I’d mistimed the dose, however, and had sat wincing through every inflated image and false quantity. It had hit me during the races, just as two chariots crashed into each other on the final lap. Time had suddenly slowed down, and it was an age for me within which the splintering of wood and upward motion of the thrown racers played itself out to the inevitable end.

  So it almost was now. The box seemed smaller and more faded than it had in the basements under the Library. Its colour was bleached out by the sun. Its handles gleamed as it was carried slowly past me. The mob shrinking back to make room, the slaves put it carefully down at the foot of the steps. They stood back from it and bowed low before it.

  ‘You’re bloody mad, Nicetas,’ Priscus rasped in Latin. ‘You’ll get us all killed.’

  Nicetas must have heard, though he paid no attention. He turned back to face the mob. Then, doing his best to keep the pain from his face, hobbled, one step at a time, down to stand beside the box. There was another small commotion as the mob tried to shrink still further back. Nevertheless, if I couldn’t see properly from where I was standing, I believe the hem of his robe was close enough to brush against some of those now scared faces.

  ‘Get it open,’ he said to the slaves.

  Unfamiliar with the locking mechanism, they struggled a while with the lid. Eventually, by twisting, and partly by main force, they pulled it loose. As it came off, there was a strange, collective sigh from the mob. Several people at the front fell to their knees. With his back to the mob, Nicetas ordered the slaves to get the mummy out and hold it up for all to see. With hands shaking but infinite tenderness, they did as they were told. Slowly, the stiffened, black remains were lifted out of their box. Turned upright, they were held up for all to see.

  All notion of protocol forgotten, Priscus and I hurried down the steps to look at the Great Alexander in the full light of day.

  Except he looked smaller and still more frail, he was as we’d left him. His eyes stared sightlessly forward. The gold ring still shone where it had stuck in the depression between his ribs. The scars shone lighter than they had under the lamps. It was hard to say with any surety after so long. But I thought I could see a faint patterning of tattoos on his upper right arm. It made sense. For all his boasting about Greek culture and Greek blood, Alexander was a Macedonian. That placed him barely two generations from the semi-barbarian.

  Now, a thousand years after his death, the remote posterity of those he had conquered looked down at his body, within the city he had founded though never seen, and that had ever since then borne his name.

  ‘Behold the Great Alexander,’ Nicetas shouted again. This time, his voice gave out under the strain.

  The herald took up the theme for himself, improvising loudly and at great length. Whatever he said was having its effect. With a slow wave, spreading ever further back among the mob, people were falling to their knees and then forward in full prostration, and calling out in reverent tones the glorious name of Alexander in Egyptian. The cries fell to whispers, and then to silence – and still the prostration continued.

  It was as if someone had flown overhead and scattered some sleeping potion that had rapid effect. One moment, I was ready to pull out my sword and make a fighting retreat. Another, and it was like staring over a carpet of sleeping woodlice. I could have stepped forward and walked, passing from sloping back to sloping back, all the way over to the guards and to the Greeks beyond – the Greeks who were themselves standing silent with arms upraised as if in prayer.

  ‘I think he’s done it,’ I whispered to Priscus. Incredulous, we looked at each other and then out again across the concourse. The herald never let up his sonorous improvising. Though I could hear it was beginning to fray, his voice had taken on an almost musical quality.

  Nicetas pointed at the slaves, who, with equal tenderness, replaced the mummy in its box. Then, each arm supported by one of the slaves, Nicetas moved back to take his place on the golden chair.

  It was a matter of getting ourselves back into position before everyone looked up again. And then of jollying them along a while longer. We’d mention the bread distribution again. We might throw in a few prayers. After that, the Egyptians could be shepherded back through the gate. So long as the Greeks gave us no trouble, it woul
d be back to the Library for Alexander, and back for the rest of us to the Palace – where I, for one, was intending to get quickly and totally drunk.

  ‘Hello, Alaric. We do seem to meet in the strangest circumstances.’

  I looked to my left. Lucas was dressed in the white, elaborately folded linen the ancient kings of Egypt wore in some of the friezes I’d seen. His beard had been oiled and plaited into a further imitation of the ancient kings. He must so far have been standing round the corner, where he’d have been facing the main flight of steps up to the portico. Now, he’d been able to take advantage of the sudden peace to move round to where things were happening.

  ‘You’d surely not attack an unarmed man?’ he asked, nodding to where my sword hand had moved. He smiled as he threaded his way closer through the motionless, prostrated mass of his people. ‘You are the first who would call it unfair,’ he said. ‘Besides, it would break the mood none of us believed His Highness the Viceroy would ever be able to manage. Now, you’d not want that – would you?’

  There was a lot I might have said back to the man. But he was right. I didn’t want to break the mood of that crowd. Once all this was over, I told myself, I’d put up his weight in silver as prize to have him delivered to me in chains. For the moment, I did my best to ignore him.

  ‘Who, in God’s name, is this?’ Priscus asked. He’d let go of his own sword. Now, just as helpless, he stood beside me, clenching and unclenching his fists. I tried to think of an answer. It would have to wait.

  ‘I thought you’d see reason,’ Lucas added with a smile any onlooker would have thought friendly. You’d never have believed what a raving lunatic he was behind that bright, casual exterior. ‘I, of course, feel no obligation to see reason,’ he said.

  Before even finishing his words, he leaned forward under my very nose. I nearly retched at the sudden smell of his breath. I stepped back out of his way. He reached into the box containing Alexander’s mummy. He put one hand each side of the head. With a smooth, practised motion, he twisted. As of dried twigs, there was a gentle snapping of bones. Before I could move forward again a single step – before I could so much as lift a finger – he’d raised the withered head above his own and was walking calmly back into the crowd.

  ‘I’m going to tell them how it weeps,’ he called happily back. ‘Just you see how they believe me.’

  ‘You’ll fucking bring that back!’ Priscus shouted as he recovered from the shock of what we’d just seen. ‘You’ll show some bloody respect.’ He jumped off the lowest step and moved between the prostrate bodies.

  Still smiling, Lucas moved further back. He began calling out in Egyptian. It was a high-pitched, sneering sound, the name of Alexander in every burst of the calling. He waved the head and twisted it in his hands. All around, the slumbering mob was coming back to life. Men were looking up. At first uncomprehending of what had been done, then terrified by it, then with a range of emotions that lay between relief and exultation, every face was turned to Lucas and the head of Alexander. With every repetition of his words, Lucas was raising more men to their feet. Radiating outward from him, and soft at first, the chanting had started up again: ‘The tears of Alexander shall flow, giving bread and freedom.’

  ‘Give it back, you wog fucker!’ Priscus cried above the regathering storm of noise as he moved deeper into the mob. No longer angry, his was a desperate, horrified cry. ‘Give it back! Give it back!’ he cried over and again. He kicked and punched at the men who were getting up to block the few yards of distance that lay between him and Lucas.

  ‘Priscus, come back,’ I shouted in Latin. ‘You’ll get yourself torn apart.’

  He stopped and looked back. He was perhaps only a dozen yards from the foot of the steps. Already, it would have been impossible to turn and recross the distance. Men plucked at his clothing. His hat of office was knocked from his head. Before he was lost within the screaming, jostling crowd, I saw him pull out his sword and stab at someone who’d raised a cudgel to him.

  It was now chaos all around. In front of us, to the left of us, all the way behind us on the other side of the portico, the Egyptian mass surged and screamed. Further back, the rising chant was taking on a tone less of hatred than of triumph. As yet, most had their backs to us – they were more interested in straining to catch sight of the head of Alexander than in turning back to face the living.

  ‘It weeps! It weeps!’ someone shouted up at us in Greek. He was turned towards us. He was a brown, runtish creature, with open sores on his face. ‘The day of deliverance is at hand,’ he went on. He reached into the box and pulled at what remained of Alexander. One of the arms came away. He turned away from us and waved it overhead. He turned back to us and bit into the shrivelled, crumbling flesh. He chewed and spat and tried to shout something. Like dust, though, the ancient flesh stuck in his mouth. He spat again and poked at me with the arm. I drew my sword and smashed hard with the hilt into his face. I could feel his lips splash and the crunching of teeth under them. He screamed and fell backwards into the boiling mass of humanity.

  ‘The Greek mob’s broken through,’ someone behind me cried as a new shout rose far behind us. ‘Oh dear!’ he added philosophically. ‘I don’t suppose our people will be pleased with us now. Still, they’ll have to fight their way through the wogs before they can get to us.’

  ‘Nicetas, get back inside the church,’ I shouted. He’d been trying to stand up again, but his walking stick had given way. He now sat awkwardly on one of the lower steps. His face had the grey, tense look of a gambler who knows but still can’t feel that he’s just been broken. It was only a matter of time before the mob turned round and decided to rip us all apart. It was almost a miracle only one Egyptian so far had ventured on to the steps. ‘Come on,’ I said to the herald, ‘help me get him up the steps.’

  As I spoke, something heavy crashed into my back. The chainmail spread the force of its impact, but it knocked me forward. I looked round. Something else landed a few feet from me.

  ‘Shit! They’ve started on the cobblestones,’ I said. I pulled at Nicetas. I kicked at his leg, and pulled him again as he jerked upwards in agony. For someone who hadn’t run noticeably to flesh, and hadn’t even thought to come out in armour, he still managed to weigh surprisingly heavy. Getting him up those steps under a growing hail of stones and other projectiles seemed to take an age. But I shoved him at last through the doorway into the church. He sprawled on to the mosaic floor and began a sobbing fit as the eunuch took over and pulled him deeper inside.

  I turned back. The mob was now coming up the steps. It wasn’t yet a rush, so much as the creeping forward of a tide. A few other members of the Council had drawn their swords and were backing slowly up to the church doors. I pulled my own out again and waved it at the now anticipatory, gloating faces. I could see no blades of any kind on the other side. The worst to show against us was cudgels. But it was a question of numbers. Dozens to one against us, they came slowly up the steps – dozens to one, and with hundreds and thousands pressing from behind. The chair on which Nicetas had recently been sitting, and around which we’d clustered, was already lost within the advancing mob. If Priscus was right, we were about to lock ourselves into our own funeral pyre. Much longer out here, though, and we’d go the way of the Great Alexander.

  ‘Get the doors shut,’ I called back. It was now just me outside and the Master of the Works. We slashed and poked at the oncoming mob. As if by prior agreement, we’d hold the mob back while the bronze doors could be swung into place. I could feel the massive click behind me as terrified, dithering hands got them loose and pushed them outward.

  ‘You first,’ I shouted at the Master of the Works. I blocked a stone with my left arm. Another crashed into my chest, almost knocking the breath out of me. I knew my arm would ache horribly later. At the time, I felt nothing. I lunged forward again with my sword. I think I did catch someone this time, though it would only have been a minor wound.

  Far over on my left
– far beyond the other side of the portico – there was a great scream of rage and terror. What could be happening I had no idea. But it drew attention away from me for the moment. I prepared to dart backward through the closing doors. Then I heard the despairing wail on my right. It was a familiar sound, quavering above the snarling of the mob. I glanced right.

  Chapter 43

  Shit and bugger! What was Martin doing up there? I’d seen him come outside the church when Alexander was carried out. I hadn’t seen him go in. I couldn’t now imagine how he’d managed to climb on to one of the bronze torch brackets. However he’d done it, though, he had his arms clamped round the top of the bracket, and one of his legs hooked over the bar securing the whole thing to the wall. With his free leg, he kicked ineffectually at the hands reaching up to pull at him. He was a good eight feet up, and no hands had yet been able to catch hold of him.

  ‘Martin!’ I shouted. The doors were swinging shut behind me. Someone inside was shouting at me to get through them. Another volley of stones thudded against the doors or crashed on to the pavements around me. Still wary of my sword’s glittering blade, the few members of the mob who’d not turned to face the screaming hung back. Martin got one of his hands free. He raised it despairingly to heaven, and then – his face suddenly determined – waved at me to get inside the church.

  ‘Martin!’ I shouted again. ‘Martin!’ There was another shout behind me. ‘Get it shut,’ I cried at no one in particular, turning half round. As I jumped rightwards, I heard the door crash shut and the thudding of bolts drawn into place.

  I could see what Martin had been trying to do. A few feet up from the torch bracket, and a few feet further along, there was a series of metal rods poking from the wall. These formed something best described as a ladder with only one arm. So far as I could tell, they led diagonally up the wall, going beyond the portico to the roof of the church. They must have been there for cleaning or repair purposes. Little had ever made sense with him when he was in a panic. But it made sense that if he was too scared to cross the few yards back to the door, Martin should be trying for the roof. How he’d got as far up as he had was a mystery. But he was now too scared – or physically unable – to make the further leap and get to the roof.